


Superiority Complexes

by kayforpay



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Chucklevoodoos, M/M, Other, Possessiveness, Sexual Frustration, Stockholm Syndrome, forced affection/nonsexual physical contact, mind-control, nonsexual control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 19:11:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16838671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayforpay/pseuds/kayforpay
Summary: You're so happy Gamzee wants to come. You're excited, and hopeful.





	Superiority Complexes

You were, honestly, ecstatic when Gamzee invited you over. Sure, he’s crude, simple, and a little, oh, plain? You mean, as highbloods go.

But! He is a highblood, and one you respect despite the differences in how he should act versus how he does act; you’d even go so far as to say you admire him. So, him taking note of your obvious superiority over the lowbloods he insists on having come to visit has you over both moons, there at his doorstep.

You can’t help, though, being slightly less enthused when he opens the door, not only opening it himself (which bothers you on an entirely different level), but at the state of pure disarray he’s in, hair sticking up at more odd angles than usual, even matted and, from the looks of it, sticky, in places. He’s barely dressed, too, only in boxers, not even socks or a shirt, never-mind what seeing his hipbones standing out the way they are does to you. You wish you’d kept a towel on hand, because you really need one now.

The worst part of his appearance, though, is that his nearly trademark painted face is smeared and marred into pale grey, or just wiped off in places. Where’s the decorum, the sense of pride in his ancestry?

“Early.” He grunts, almost inaudible and barely opening his mouth to say so. “C’mon.”

You obey, and the moment you’re inside his hive, even just two steps in with the door not yet fully swung closed behind you, you feel a kind of pressure. Not a physical sensation, not really, just something that you feel, this warm (intrusive?) pressure at the nape of your neck. It wraps forward, pushing at your head at all sides, but it doesn’t hurt, it isn’t like a tension headache from staying up focusing too long on a project. It’s just there, making everything seem a little far-off, a little quieter.

He waves his hand to tell you to follow him, and somehow your legs listen. You can’t imagine how you, even with your STRENGTH, are moving your legs. They feel both heavy and not attached, all at once. After a few steps, Gamzee stops and looks back at you, then grins in what you think might be a sheepish way (why is he so far away? you want to touch him.), eyes flickering indigo for an instant.

All at once, you feel better, your legs re-attaching to your body, your head un-fogging, and you think nothing of following him to his block. Something in the back of your mind tells you he helped (you still want to touch him, you wish he’d sit still).

In his block, he walks to his coon and stretches, the vertebrae standing out starkly in his skin, his fingertips just clearing his horns and his ribs not-quite peaking under his skin. Your bulge twitches curiously, and then he brushes his hands down his sides and sighs in this all-too-relaxed kind of way that makes your throat go dry. When he drops his boxers to the floor, your bulge is definitely interested, and you cough to catch his attention.

“H-highblood, I—” You start, voice tight.

He smiles and walks towards you, all sleepy-soft at the edges, when did you start feeling tired? “Call me Gamzee.” Not a request.

“Gamzee.” You say, though you’d intended on bypassing that altogether. For a few seconds, your tongue is too thick, too heavy and unwieldy to use to make any words, and he just watches you, eyes too focused for having just woken up. “Gamzee.”

The second time startles you, because you know you didn’t tell yourself to speak, but he smiles a little wider and reaches his hand out to press it to your cheek, and it’s… Okay. You feel okay, leaning into his touch like you are. He purrs and you let your eyes close.

His voice is almost too loud when he speaks, like he’s speaking at a normal volume directly next to your ear. “Get undressed and get in my coon. Sleep with me, I know you want to.”

Gamzee isn’t wrong about that. You’ve wanted to touch him since you saw him—hell, since you met him. You’re pulling your shirt over your head before you even realize that you’re moving, and then you have to stop yourself, putting forth serious conscious effort to do so. Weird, you think, but you’ll worry about it later.

“H-Gamzee.” You stumble. “I could not do such a thing. You are a higher blood, it would be unbecoming.”

Gamzee pouts a little, wrapping his skinny arms around your waist and purring softly. “Nah. Just do what I tell you.” He pulls back, then, and you actually whimper.

Your arms are moving again, pulling your shirt off of your body completely and dropping your shorts, then underwear, and finally your shoes and socks, leaving them piled near the coon. Gamzee crawls in first, then beckons you with two fingers curling, and you wonder if he means what you hope he means when he says “sleep with me”, even though every time your mind begins to stray towards those thoughts, you immediately just think how tired you suddenly feel.

What did you read about highblood powers? How were they supposed to feel, again?

When you slide into the slime beside him, Gamzee wraps himself around you, arms and legs and his head tucked up between your shoulder and neck. You find yourself purring, and your eyes feel heavy. He sighs this soft little sound, his slimy hand lifting to pet through your hair, and you feel like a very pampered, very spoiled and well taken care of pet. It’s a nice feeling, and it sticks with you as you fall asleep, deep and dreamless.

About fifteen minutes later, you wake up, feeling just as not-tired as you had when you arrived. Gamzee is out cold against you, cheek smashed to your shoulder and a string of purplish drool spilling from his parted lips. He’s pressed to you, and you’re all too aware of it, of the proximity of his nook to your sheath and his neck to your lips and you can guess what he’d sound like if you woke him up and he let you take him.

But it’s safer not to do that. As such, you disentangle yourself from him, careful not to wake him, and plod to the bathroom (you’re wary of leaving, for some reason. Like the rest of the world is too big for you to handle alone.), not bothering with your clothes; they’d just be ruined anyway. Stepping over a pile of disused video cassettes and empty Faygo bottles, you move to kneel in his abulations trap, spreading your knees as wide as the space allows, and then turn the water on as low as you can while keeping a steady stream.

Glancing at the door, you let your hand slide down, fingers pressing just between the lips of your sheath to tease your bulge out. You sigh, shakily, as the first few inches curl free, tingling a little from the slime stuck to your skin. You wrap your hand around what of it is out (you don’t see any reason to unsheathe fully if you can help it; better to get this over with and wait for Gamzee to wake up and tell you what he actually wanted when he called you over), eyes closing and opening slowly, and after the first flick of your wrist, you can’t make your hands move.

Nor your arms, actually. Or legs. Nothing seems to be moving, aside from your bulge twisting between your fingers and trying to find friction, and your internal organs moving the way you’d expect them to. Nothing conscious, though, nothing you’re trying to tell your body to do, besides your eyes flicking up to the door, like you might call for help (“highblood, please, nothing but my bulge is working!”, that’ll make a great impression), and Gamzee is standing there, nude and sleepy.

“Y’woke me up, bluebro.” He murmurs, like your bulge isn’t out and waving at him. He wipes at his eye and exposes more of his skin to the air. “Why’re you gettin to that shit?”

Swallowing hard, you open your mouth, but all you manage is some feral click, something submissive and pleading. Gamzee grins, looking sweet and bashful all at once, walking towards you and leaving footprints on the tile. He sits at the edge of the tub and takes your hands in his, pulling them from where they were trying to help you along in getting off, and pressing one palm flat against the base of your sheath, hard enough to hurt. The other, he just holds under the water for a moment, then slips his fingers through yours.

“Been meanin on askin. See bro, I ain’t too into them pailing quads. Never have been. Pailing makes a motherfucker kinda sick, honestly.” He says, calm. You nod, because you can, you discover. “But that don’t mean I ain’t want some wicked physical shit! This brother got needs like any troll got them, no troll ain’t an island, yknow? Gotta get a hug and shit now and then.”

Blinking, you note that your bulge is retracted, and you’re able to move. You rinse your other hand off. “I see, H-Gamzee, apologies. Is that why you called me over?”

“Yeah!” He squawks. “‘Cause I wanted some pretty beefgrub to get a feel on with, yknow? You’re a pretty fine beefgrub. Just that I ain’t wantin to pail. Actually meant to ask first, didn’t mean to get in your pan all rough and tumble like, but bluebro got here early and woke a motherfucker up, weren’t too clear for myself.“

More blinking on your part, you just stare at your hands, both now in his and both limp. He was in your pan? That explains so much… “If you wanted me to, ah, cuddle?” He nods. “To cuddle. I am glad to do so, though you will have to excuse my body’s response.. I assure you, I can handle it myself, and I will not expect you to do anything at all for it.” You nod, looking at the greenish swirls in the water from the slime dripping from your thighs.

As he speaks, he stands from the edge of the tub and moves, stepping up and spreading his legs around you to sit in your lap, and you focus on keeping your bulge in check, though it isn’t as hard as you’d imagine it being; every time you start to think about what his nook probably feels like, your mind flips back to the conversation, or to some schematic for something you don’t really care for or about. You assume that’s him in your pan again, your arms slipping about his waist; secure, possessive even.

"But see, that’s the thing. I ain’t wanted you doing that, neither.” He nearly whines, pulling your hands to his chest and kissing your knuckles, pouting again. “Don’t want even the seed of some red shit in your pan, no. Not even pale, brother. Just want my big ole blue beefgrub to help me sleep and shit. You gettin to wackin slurry in the tub’d make a motherfucker feel wrong.”

You nod, slowly, and watch the cords on the backs of his hands stand out when he squeezes yours. “I.. I understand, Gamzee. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I just want to make you happy.” And you do, you really do, even though now you can feel that familiar pressure at the back of your neck, the invisible fingers pushing into your pan to move things around. You’ve always wanted to please highbloods, and Gamzee is no different.

“I know you do. Let’s go sleep.” He purrs, standing and waiting for you to shut the water off before walking back towards his block, making sure not to go more than a few steps ahead of you.

Although, in any other situation, you’re sure you’d be looking at his rump at least a little, you find yourself just watching the back of his head as you walk. Maybe he’s making you? You don’t mind, either way. He doesn’t want you to touch yourself, and it’ll help, you’re sure.

Even though, now, you’re not tired, you sink into the slime with him, and he latches onto you again, nose under your jaw. You drape your arms around his waist and purr, low and rumble-y, to help him sleep, and after a while, you drift off too, the slime finally getting to you.

When you wake up, Gamzee is already up and out, and you feel lost for a moment. Haven’t you only been here for a short time, though? It feels like longer, like he’s been missing and you got him, but then he left again. You want to ask why, but you think you might already know.

You step out of the coon, feeling a little groggy and having to swallow a few times to get your ears to pop. Something about the chucklevoodoos Gamzee has makes the air pressure go wonky, you think, like there’s static in the air. Maybe he’s just got a very powerful sort of them. That would make sense, he’s pretty great.

You rinse and dress, then wander into the main area, feeling some not-really-there rings wrapping around your intact horn and pulling you into the room. Gamzee is lounging in a pile of bottles and horns, and you automatically move to scoop him up, because he must be uncomfortable. He smiles and allows you to, arms wrapping around your shoulders. You use the arm you don’t have supporting him to make a pile out of the couch cushions and some towels you had in your sylladex, then lay him on it.

As you’re about to turn away, moving towards the kitchen to find something for the two of you to eat, he smacks his lips, arms up, and you lean in to kiss his cheek without even thinking. It’s then that you notice that he must have showered, because his hair is wet and smells like fruit, and his face is unpainted and soft. He returns the kiss to your opposite cheek and you stand up straight again, then move to the kitchenette he has.

It takes only a small amount of time for you to realize that he’s got very little there, and instead you call for some take-out, then sit with him while you both eat, an arm wound about his shoulders.

At some point, you send a note hive to tell Nepeta that you’re not going to be back for a while, probably, and that she needn’t worry. The days and nights pass in a blur, for the most part, with you trailing behind Gamzee and fairly begging for his attention, for him to let you touch him.

Sometimes, he tells you to shut the fuck up and leave him alone, and you find yourself unwilling to leave his block or speak at all until he asks you to. Most of the time, though, he gives you gentler directions, asking you to move something or call for something. He always pets your hair, and kisses your cheek, and when you find yourself getting daymares a few days in, he tells you to nap next to him and you can almost feel him picking the dark thoughts from your pan when you do.

He takes care of you, it’s very nice.

In fact, the only times he seems upset are the ones when you feel yourself getting too ‘excited’ and try to excuse yourself from the hive to deal with it. His eyes go from that soft indigo glow they sometimes have to brilliant red (he’s so pretty, even mad, but you don’t like making him mad), but they go back to normal really fast and he just reminds you that he doesn’t want you to do that, and you sit back down, staring at your feet until he tells you it’s okay and hugs you again.

About three nights in, he tells you he wants to take a bath, and you nearly panic.

“Gamzee, I, to respect your wishes and not uh, impress any unwanted things on you, I must decline.” You start, flushing deep blue and avoiding his eyes. He’s smiling like you’re a meowbeast tangled in yarn.

Gamzee licks his lips and you watch his tongue, curling and uncurling your toes in your shoes. “But I want to. Don’t you want to make me happy, Equius?”

“Yes! Yes, of course I do, Gamzee. I just really, I do not want to make you uncomfortable, please.” You’re not watching him, but you don’t flinch when he pets your hair; you lean into it, feeling less anxious already. “I don’t want to have my body react.”

His voice echoes in your pan, and you feel small. He must be unhappy with you. “Then don’t let it.”

Following him is a mindless thing, your hand at the hem of his shirt because you feel wrong if you’re not close to him, and you only really feel protected if he’s touching you. He pushes your hands away from himself when he stops, and looks at you almost coldly, and you shiver, eyes casting down like a guilty wriggler.

“Get undressed. We’re taking a bath. Now.” The last word is too loud in your pan, too heavy, and you nod as you follow the order, stripping so quickly that you tear your shirt. When you’re naked, he smiles again, and you relax just slightly. “Good boy. That wasn’t too hard, was it? My big old beefgrub, don’t you like spending time with me?”

Nodding, you let yourself move into the tub and start the water, running it until it’s the right heat and starting the tub filling while Gamzee undresses, taking his time. Although you’re focusing, you keep glancing at him, at how he moves, and you have to press the heel of your hand to your sheath to keep from popping a wiggly.

Before he steps into the water, he stares at you, eyes trailing over your form like he’s scrutinizing you, and you swallow, wishing he’d touch you but wanting him not to because oh god your bulge is trying to come out. Then, he sinks into the water, laughing when it overflows and splashes onto the floor.

He leans past you to grab the soap and a rag, then looks at you funny when he starts to wash your chest and you whimper. “Havin troubles?”

“Gamzee. Please let me get out. I don’t want to make you mad.” You whisper, not meeting his eyes. “I need to, to deal with this.”

Gamzee thinks for a few seconds, then shakes his head. “No. I told you not to let your body do that. Ain’t you fucking listening?”

You whine softly at the echoing in your head and he goes back to washing you, your arms both lifting for him to get to them and wash them. Your bulge stays in because you press your legs together so tight it hurts, and he doesn’t mention it, just drops the rag into your hand and turns to face away from you.

Even though you’re trying so fucking hard not to shake, you do, but Gamzee doesn’t mention it; you shake a little less when you actually start washing him, scrubbing his back and shoulders, down the knobs of his spine and back up, to go over him to his chest. He doesn’t lean back, and you don’t need to be told to move forward.

You scoot forward and have to move your legs apart to be close enough to wash his chest, and for a few moments, you’re fine. He’s relaxed, murmuring that you’re a good boy and that he’s going to have to give you some kind of treat, and you let yourself relax; maybe your body finally realized that he’s not someone to be with like that.

Then, he puts a hand on the back of your neck and pulls himself into your lap so you can wash his lower abdomen, and your bulge writhes free of your sheath, pressing up between his thighs without pushing into him (thank god, you wouldn’t have been able to go on otherwise). Gamzee snarls and stands, turning to face you so fast you wonder how he didn’t fall.

“I motherfuckin said to keep that thing in line, beefgrub.“ He growls, eyes glowing red and not changing, and you shrink back until you can’t move. "How many goddamn times I gotta tell you not to think on me that way?”

You can’t respond, you can’t even move, you hardly feel like you’re breathing. He makes your arms move, not even pretending to hide his powers in your pan. The force that your hands have when they push your bulge back makes you sob, barking out pleads to make him stop, and he bares his teeth, his voice echoing in your mind that he could have had anyone, even the princess, that you’re special and that you don’t even deserve it.

Beyond the pain, and the anger that he won’t even let you deal with it, so it won’t be a problem again, you feel like you’ve failed him. He’s so good to you, you think, and you’re disobeying his one rule like this. Gamzee’s shoulders are shaking with his anger and you wish he would touch you with his hands and not your own.

"Please.” You gasp, tears slipping down your cheeks more from shame than from pain. “Gamzee. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please. I won’t do it again, please let me make it up to you. Please let me be good for you.”

He leans in close, eyes still that red. “I know you will be. I don’t expect that I’ll have to punish you again.” His breath is against your face but he’s not touching you.

“Gamzee please!” You sob, your bulge finally giving up and your body going limp so fast you almost fall into the water. “Please. I’m scared. I need, you’re, please.” You try, mumbling and shaking. What if he doesn’t want you now?

He watches you as he pulls the drain with his foot, then starts to rinse the soap off himself, and you hold your sides, whimpering and trying to stop shaking, until he finally offers a hand.

His voice is softer, tired and disappointed but not upset. “Come on, you fuckin mess. Get up so I can clean you up. I wanna get to coon now.” His hand slips into yours and his arm wraps around your waist and you cry into his neck for a while, until he tucks your hair back and tells you that you need to stop crying, now, please.

You dry him off, delicate as ever, and then yourself, and he has you slip into the coon first, pulling his powers back almost completely so you can feel your body stinging and aching inside, your bulge’s bruising and the way your thighs keep twitching from holding them together that way. The sopor helps, but it’s still painful, and until he sinks in beside you and wraps himself up with you, it’s terrifying.

You don’t dream.

The next evening, the moment he steps away from the coon, you shoot awake, terror lancing through your sleep. He just smiles over his shoulder at you while you scramble out of the coon.

“Looks like my lapdog got spooked.” He teases, petting your cheek. “Come on. Let’s get some food.”

It isn’t until you’re in the main room, curled against him while he munches on some snacks and watches inane shows between feeding you bites with his fingers that you realize you’re not dressed. He tells you to forget it, since he’s not going anywhere.

“Unless you’re headed off someplace without me?” He asks, thumb brushing your bottom lip to wipe some of the salt from the chips off it.

The thought makes you almost puke, and you shake your head. “No. I don’t want to. Can I stay? Please?” You press a chaste kiss to his cheek.

“Course you can, bluebro. I cain’t kick my beefgrub out, can I?” He coos, petting your cheek. “What’d you even do without me, beefgrub?”

You lean into his hand. “I’d be scared. I don’t want to be away from you. I don’t want to, Gamzee.”

He smiles, petting your head and down your back like you’re a cat, or a nervous grub, and you sigh, relaxing against him again. “Yeah, I know. Ain’t gonna send you into the wild yonder like that, Equius. Not my best fuckin cuddlebro.”

**Author's Note:**

> an old work!


End file.
